


Symphony of Lies

by FrostTchaikovsky



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-22 03:54:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrostTchaikovsky/pseuds/FrostTchaikovsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony needs something to inspire him, he is drifting on a tide of uselessness He finds reason thrust upon him by a rather enigmatic, green-eyed cellist. Loki has feelings that he doesn't understand. He can only convey them through his music. He doesn't want anyone to understand, but maybe he needs someone to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Need

“You need something...anything...I can’t be with you like this. Your light has gone out.”

The harsh reality of Pepper’s words burned into Tony’s conscious like hot needles. It shouldn’t have been like this. He was Iron Man. He had saved the world, and for what? Three months later and he couldn’t keep a handle on life anymore; his girlfriend was leaving him, his social life had dried up completely and he wasn’t able to concentrate on anything for more than five minutes.

Pepper had found him in his workshop using a half-empty pizza box as a pillow as he slept off the god-knows-how-much scotch from the night before. He’d been drinking alone again. Hungover, Tony hadn’t been fully aware of Pepper’s presence but he heard the last few words: she was leaving him.

Tony hadn’t realised that he could feel more alone than he already did. He slid to the floor, leaning against a workbench his world collapsing inside him.

His light had gone out.

\---

After what seemed like an adequate time of wallowing in self-pity, Tony had come to a conclusion. He needed inspiration, a reason to wake up in the morning. Ever since the Avengers had disbanded after the Battle of New York, he had been void of purpose. Drifting on a melancholy tide of memories. Pepper’s ultimatum had rudely jerked him back to reality.

A shower, that’s what I need.

Steaming jets of water hit his back in a regular rhythm. For that moment, one thing in Tony’s life was a constant. The music of the water dotting the foggy glass reminded Tony of the music lessons his mother had forced upon him.

Apparently, geniuses needed something to anchor themselves to empathy. Music lessons were another of his mother’s schemes to attempt to make Tony less self-obsessed and more personable. Needless to say, it had not worked. His teacher, a withered seventy-something bachelor had visited the Stark mansion once a week to lecture eight-year-old Tony with such delights as ‘the importance of Baroque music’’ and ‘why Wagner was so misunderstood’. Although Tony had been resolved to hate the lessons, he couldn’t deny that the music was always enchanting.

This gave him an idea. Pepper had said he ‘needed something’. Maybe music would give him cause to remember what he was doing with his life.

“Jarvis,” he asked the AI hesitantly, unsure of his newborn idea, “what is there on at Carnegie Hall tonight.”

“Well, sir, there happens to be a cello recital that critics are naming ‘delightful’, judging by Ms Potts’ hasty departure earlier, you will only require one ticket?”

A dull ache permeated Tony’s chest at the mention of Pepper.

“Enough of the attitude, Jarvis. Yes, that sounds great.”

“One small thing, sir,” the chastised voice replied, “the performance starts in approximately 15 minutes.”

“Shit.”

\---

Tony straightened his bow-tie with one hand as he rushed through the gilded entrance of Carnegie Hall. The journey from Stark Tower had taken way longer than he expected. He was only seven or eight minutes late, but for some reason the embarrassment was really getting to him. He was as flustered as a schoolgirl on her first date.

“Sir, the performance has already started, I’m afraid you’ll have to...oh.”

The red jacketed usher’s jaw dropped as Tony flashed his best I’m-a-billionaire-I-do-what-I-want- smile at him, pushing past into the foyer. His patent leather shoes slipped on the polished marble tiles as he skidded through the hallways and towards the heavy oak door that stood between him and his seat. He pressed his calloused engineer hand to the door, stopping only when his ears caught the sweet strains of music.

Something broke, deep inside him.

Like before he slid slowly to the floor, his hands stroking the cool stone, his head against the dark-stained wood. Melodies washed over him, purging his thoughts of insecurities, or amplifying them beyond recognition, Tony couldn’t tell which. All he could think of was the heart-wrenching, sorrowful music echoing in his mind and the inexplicable joy he felt at understanding it. The sound grew and ground to a slow, glorious halt: the piece was over.

To Tony, it felt like he had been sitting there for years. His eyes had closed. Now he pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his suit; he needed to see the musician, this therapeutic magician who knew him so well.  
The door slid open soundlessly in the vast applause and Tony slipped his way through. Thankfully his seat was close to him. The standing ovation cloaked his view of the stage as he stumbled along the row. He sat and waited as the rest of the audience took their seats, craning his neck toward the single, spotlit chair in the centre of the hall.

Long, dark hair obscured the face of the cellist while they adjusted something on the gleaming body of the instrument. His dark clothes suited more a funeral than a concert. A few seconds passed and Tony couldn’t decide what he longed for more; to hear another piece or to see the face of the cellist.

Finally, lithe shoulder tensed and the musician brought his face up, solemnly to confront the audience. A set jaw betrayed no emotion, despite the astounding reaction to the previous piece. Enigmatic, forest-green eyes burned into Tony’s chocolate ones.

Loki.


	2. Questions

Loki.

A thousand thoughts popped into Tony’s head at once. Why was Loki here, in the open? Since when did the Trickster god play the cello? And, most importantly, why did the music affect Tony so intimately?

A long, harmonious note signalled the start of another piece. Deep, sea-green eyes seemed to glow in the sparkling spotlight. Tony relaxed in his chair slightly. Being thrown out of a window could make a man somewhat tense in the face of his nemesis, yet Tony felt no compulsion to leap onto the stage and confront the villain. He sank back into plush, red velvet.

Ah, well. He thought, I’ll have to stay for the whole concert now.

\---  
Upon waking in the morning, Tony couldn’t immediately remember why he had slept so well. Normally, a good night’s sleep was only accessible through the comfort of alcohol. His lack of a pounding head alerted him to the change.

A lucid memory of a melody popped into his head, then a picture. Long, tapering fingers caressing strings, ebony hair cascading past polished wood. Now he thought about it, Loki had looked more, well, human than he had ever seen him. Tony had had no idea that the Liesmith contained such raw emotion. It was an easy thing to forget when you saw someone obliterating buildings with a snap of the fingers.

Without moving, Tony explored his new feeling of serenity. He knew he had problems, the difference was that now he could imagine solving them. The mist that had polluted his conscious for the last three months was gradually retreating. It felt good.

Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all, maybe...

“Sir,” the AI interrupted his inner soliloquy, “Mr Thor is waiting for you in the lounge.”

Tony groaned, he had seen neither hide nor hair of Thor since the Thunder god’s return to Asgard three months ago. He had not wanted to. Thor’s belligerent nature and stifling morality grated against Tony’s ideas of fun.

Still, Thor might be able to explain why his adopted brother had been playing at the country’s most famous concert venue last night. Also, why the fact that he was back on earth had not been registered by S.H.I.E.L.D.

\---

The muscular Norse god was sprawled across a leather sofa when Tony emerged from the lift. He seemed to be fighting an inner battle with something. Rather than interrupting one of Thor’s rare spells of deep thought, Tony proceeded to make himself a coffee at the kitchen counter.

With his back to Thor, he wondered why on earth he didn’t have an AI barista yet. All of the tiny packets of coffee for the coffee machine were so fiddly. Eventually Tony triumphed over the menial task and walked over to sit with Thor, steaming beverage in his hands.

The Thunder god seemed to have made a decision and turned to face Tony, his regal features displaying a friendly expression.

“Man of Iron, I assume you are confused as to why I have met with you. The truth is, I am not sure whether this meeting is really necessary, as I am sure that you are of good judgement regarding the affairs those not from Midgard.”

Tony smirked. Thor’s archaic speech amused him. “Get to the point, big guy.”

“Well, Tony Stark, I am aware that yesterday evening you were in the presence of my somewhat misguided brother.” The Asgardian’s hands twisted uncomfortably in his lap: he had something to hide.

“Yeah, I noticed that Loki is somehow back on earth. What’s up with that?” Tony phrased his question nonchalantly, not wanting to betray his burning need to know Loki’s purpose.

“I did not intend for this to happen, Man of Iron,” Thor was staring at him earnestly, “I just couldn’t bear to see my brother with so much misery in his eyes. I persuaded my father that his punishment was enough and promised that I would be his chaperone on Midgard. Once we were free of the Bifröst, Loki managed to escape me using clever words and conjuring tricks. I searched for him for weeks, but it became apparent that he did not wish for me to find him. I have waited here, on Midgard, in case he tries to cause any mischief.”

Mischief? He wrecked an entire city! Tony thought derisively.

Thor noticed Tony’s raised eyebrows. He adjusted his posture on the sofa so that he could look Tony more directly in the eye.

“My brother has made many mistakes, Man of Iron. I do not believe that he would deliberately harm any Midgardians, after he saw the results of his last folly. You should not fear him, even if he does know that you recognised him. He doesn’t wish any peril on you or the other Avengers. I beg you to see that he needs time to repent for his wrongs.”

Pins and needles had grown in Tony’s right leg during Thor’s explanation. The god sure had the power to be long-winded.

“Um, sure, I won’t report him to Fury. Just as long as I don’t get thrown out of any more buildings, I’ll pretend that everything’s fine and dandy.”

A grateful smile split the Thunder god’s face.

“By Odin, Man of Iron, you will not regret this favour. I bid you farewell.”

Thor stretched and walked purposefully out of the room. Tony took a sip of his coffee and grimaced: it had gone cold during the lengthy conversation. He left it on the counter and stared out of the panoramic window.

A feeling of unease was creeping back into him. It could be the effects the concert wearing off, or the knowledge that Loki, for some reason, had decided that earth was not worth invading. Since when did the god of mischief not want to cause trouble? Either way, he wanted to experience the enlightening feeling of self-worth that last night’s music had given him again.

“Jarvis, how many more nights is that cellist doing at Carnegie?”

“You want to see the same concert again, sir? I didn’t know your tastes were that refined.”

Tony inwardly cursed himself for making the AI so questioning.

“Obviously I want to see the concert again,” Who wouldn’t? “That’s why I’m asking.”

“The concert series continues for another three nights, sir.”

Joy grew in Tony’s heart. He didn’t know why the concept of seeing Loki perform again made him so happy, but he didn’t care. He allowed the sublime feeling to engulf him.


	3. Understanding

From backstage, Loki cast his eyes around the chasm of the concert hall. It was, of course, fully booked once more. The mortals seemed to love his music. The god could not comprehend how something so personal could attract the prying masses so effectively. He felt an odd sense of pride at his conquering of the humans’ emotions.

Walking out onto the stage, he felt desolate, even with the crowd present. They could watch him play, but none would ever understand his music. Silence fell as they waited for him to begin.

A single movement in the forest of anticipating statues caught his attention. Recognition dawned and then was overshadowed by confusion.

Why is Stark back again? The foolish mortal surely knows who I am, yet he refuses to accept the danger of proximity.

Loki realised that he had been staring for more than the normal length of time. He tended to do so, Asgardians didn’t feel the passage of time quite as acutely as other races. The human had noticed too. Icy blue eyes snapped to his own green orbs. Unspoken words seemed to pass between the pair. Tony Stark leant forwards, an almost inconceivably small motion, as if he wanted to reach towards the stage, towards Loki. He obviously thought better of his actions, however. Their eye-contact broke as the human suddenly became fascinated by his own palms.

Loki could not fathom a reason for the mortal’s interest in him, he was only aware of a strange feeling growing within him.

Awkwardness. Or possibly embarrassment.

He copied Stark’s idea. He bent his head and feigned an examination of his cello’s strings. Pointed fingertips skimmed over the taught threads. Had he been mortal, he suspected that he would have blushed. Loki was not of this realm, though, and it angered him that a mere Midgardian could make him feel so. He had assumed that no-one could make him feel anything.

Ignore him, he instructed himself, he doesn’t know you.

\---

The concert lasted longer than he expected; the humans did insist on clapping for a veritable aeon after each of his pieces. It irritated Loki that they thought they could relate to his music.

None of them have seen what I have seen. No doubt that if they had, they would be reduced to quivering wrecks. Humanity is fickle and weak.

As usual, he didn’t return to the stage for a second bow. The whole applause etiquette was engineered and fake anyway. If he had taken another bow, it would have lead to countless more. Loki didn’t have time for formalities. He retreated to his dressing room before any ‘fans’ who had snuck backstage could confront him to demand autographs or other pointless items of memorabilia.

It had been easy enough to manipulate the minds of Carnegie Hall’s proprietors into letting him play a week’s concerts. He probably would have been able to get the performances without the use of magic, but Loki didn’t have time for auditions either.

Loki’s dressing room was as he had imagined the humans would have their dressing rooms. Huge mirrors to satisfy the performers’ massive egos and over-the-top lighting to accentuate any flaws in those ‘not worthy’. He had taken the liberty to alter the wallpaper’s colour to a more sombre dark green. He had removed the bare light bulbs, replacing them with an array of candles - Norse gods did not need to worry about fire hazards. The mirrors had stayed. Loki wouldn’t admit it, but he did like to admire his own reflection.

A small tongue of emerald fire licked his fingertip as he lit the candles, casting looming shadows over the walls. Fire was something familiar to Loki; something he could trust to obey him. Unlike, apparently, his feelings. He sat heavily onto the low couch that ran the length of one wall. The smooth, black suede comforted his limbs as he reclined. Lids slipped over his weary eyes.

In the darkness of his own mind, thoughts swirled like tea-leaves, then settled into an image. An abashed expression, confused, dark brows furrowing over cerulean eyes.

Stark. Why must you haunt me? What is it about you?

Even in the gloomy recesses of his conscious, Loki knew that he had to see the Man of Iron again. He had no tangible reason, just an urge.

\---

Thundering, the feet of nearly three thousand humans lulled Loki into a feeling of security. He liked to be alone. The sound of people leaving was one of comfort. To him, solitude was the antidote to anger, or in this case an aura of utter hopelessness.

Recklessly, he decided he would see Stark before the night was through. He had called an usher and instructed him to find the billionaire and direct him to the subterranean dressing room.

Now, Loki waited.

He may just turn me in, his vainglorious cronies would love that, Loki mused, My brother would be easily forgiven for his weak-mindedness if Stark could bring me home like a trophy.

But, for no reason the Trickster could think of, he was happy to wait for Stark. He would let fate run it’s course, for once. There might even be some interesting consequences. The danger made him happy, as it would any lover of chaos.

Loki was beginning to wonder whether Stark would grace him with his presence when an abrupt knock broke the tranquil silence. The vibrations spread from the door to make the candles flicker. The god of Lies remain in his supine position on the couch, his hands clasped on his chest. Silky, the black dress shirt he wore clung to the outline of his ribcage. He drew in a shallow breath, his chest shaking as much as the light from the candles.

The self-assured timbre of a second knock confirmed that Tony Stark was indeed outside his door.

Let the pandemonium commence, thought Loki. He couldn’t exactly leave the billionaire waiting.

“Enter.”


	4. Indecision

Impatience surged through Tony as he waited for the god to open the door. He checked his watch and groaned. It was a quarter to midnight already and he had a board meeting in the morning. He didn’t usually require much sleep before the meetings, but tomorrow he would have to deal with an angry Pepper.

His mind continued to wander, so he didn’t, at first, hear Loki’s derisive permission to enter. The Asgardian’s voice sounded a second time, clearer and more annoyed.

“Stark, do you mind,? I’ve played eight concerts in the last seven days and it is not the norm for me to wait for the clamouring fans while the loiter outside of my chamber. They mainly storm in of their own accord.”

The sarcasm, or that’s what he hoped it was, grated against Tony’s pride. He wasn’t a ‘fan’. He didn’t know quite what he was in that moment. One thing was definite though, he was not about to walk away from this.

Not as well looked after as those in the foyer, the door squealed on its hinges as Tony pushed it slowly open, not having the faintest clue what to expect.

For all I know, Loki could have some sadistic torture chamber rigged up in here.

His heartbeat seemed to quicken at the idea. It had been a while since been put in this kind of danger. No, Loki seemed to eloquent for that kind of thing.

Eyes adjusting to the candlelight, he squinted. A cello was on the floor, leaning unceremoniously on a pile of handwritten sheet music.The god of Mischief was lying on his back on a low couch, hands gnarled into intricate knots, face contorted in concentration or irritation. Tony allowed himself the luxury of watching this fascinating being for a few seconds, before speaking.

“I’m not here for you to sign my boobs if that’s what you’re thinking,” he joked, “anyway, I was invited, care to explain why?”

The Asgardian paused before replying, his mouth squirming into a tight line.

“Mr Stark, I am expecting an explanation as to why you took it upon yourself to attend my last three concerts, even though the programme was utterly identical on every night.”

Jeez, he gets to the point much quicker than his brother. Tony loved to compare the gods, but he would never voice his observations, for fear of decapitation, or worse.

“Can’t a man enjoy some lovely music now and again?”

“When the musician threw him out of a skyscraper, I would argue that he can’t.”

Loki was smirking, and even though the Stark Tower encounter was still a sore spot for Tony, he chuckled to himself. So, the god was funny. At least when he wasn’t trying to kill you, he was funny. Loki’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, Tony noticed. He was suddenly aware that he was standing in a room with the Norse god of Chaos and, in spite of it, enjoying a joke.

“Stark - you haven’t answered my question. Why did you come back?”

Green eyes met Tony’s as the god sat up and rested his shoulders against the mirrored wall. The look of piercing inquiry made Tony think that he was prying into something very private. He didn’t want to look weak in front of a man who could kill him so easily, but he had to know what Loki’s music was doing to him.

“I...I don’t know, okay Loki. Your music, it just does something to me?”

He hadn’t meant to make that a question. He hadn’t meant to make it sound so ineffectual either. It made him uncomfortable to imagine the ways in which Loki could affect him. Music didn’t even require magic. What else could the god do to him? The feeling of safety that Loki’s smile had created was diminishing rapidly.

\---

Loki sighed when he heard Stark’s answer. He had thought that one who could defy the gods, might possibly have been able to understand his music, but no. Here was just another human who wanted to feel included. He closed his eyes, now aware of a growing headache that had arrived from the effort of concealing his presence in Midgard. Stark’s gaze lingered on him, he could tell. It took effort not to return the eye contact.

“For Odin’s sake, Stark, you cannot imagine the depths of my music. I find it irritating that you think you can.”

“I know that it makes me feel more...alive.”

The Man of Iron was tentative without his armour to protect him.

“Don’t fool yourself. The music was not intended to boost your joie de vivre, any more than it was intended to make Thor sing nursery rhymes.”

Stark looked wounded at this cynicism. He took a step back and shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket, becoming more defensive.

“Your music is what I want it to be.”

Rage tore at Loki.

“NO,” he said forcefully, “my music belongs to me, others will only interpret it wrongly, besmirching it with hasty assumptions and fickle human stereotypes. I do not know why I share it with you Midgardians.”

Loki opened his eyes to gauge Stark’s reaction to this truth and was shocked to see a tear running down the human’s cheek.

What was this?

Vulnerability surround the mortal, who now seemed so fragile. Indecision seized Loki. If a declaration such as that which he had just uttered could cause Stark such pain, maybe he was wrong about the human. The Man of Iron’s hands were balled in frustration, though he made no move to vent his anger.

Hating himself for pushing one so valuable away, Loki turned to the wall, drawing his legs up to his chest, breathing heavily. He pressed his forehead into his knees. Darkness greeted him like an old friend.

Several long minutes slipped past without so much as a sound. Loki didn’t move, the emotions coursing through his body kept him rooted to the spot.

Stark’s footsteps make little sound as he exited the dressing room.


	5. Realisation

Rain, like the shower three days previously, brought something constant back into Tony Stark’s existence. At first not noticing the extent to which he was being soaked, he thought nothing of driving home. He was so angry he did not trust himself with the wheel of a car, so he trudged along the deserted pavements. Tony couldn’t begin to comprehend the magnitude of the emotional earthquake Loki had just triggered within his body. To have the one thing that could have possibly saved him from himself taken, no ripped,away was unthinkable. The hole that it left gaped, threatening to absorb Tony entirely.

Loki, he did this to me.

Still, with the remnants of the night’s concert lingering in his mind, Tony couldn’t renounce the god. The music was too precious, even if he was scorned for appreciating it.

My problem is that I always want more.

The billionaire’s shoulders quaked as he sighed, a cloud of steam momentarily obscured his vision, his breath in the clammy night. A shiver danced across his neck. Loki’s words haunted him, as well as the image of the god curled into a ball. Why would the god of Mischief shrink away from him like that? If Tony had enraged him, the mortal would not have lived to ponder the circumstances of his departure from the green-wallpapered room. No, the god looked how Tony had felt inside now.

Regret?

Things might have been different if he hadn’t gone into that room with presumptions already lined up. Tony had believed that the Aesir would be desperate to show off, like a master-criminal flaunting his latest world-domination plan. Loki hadn’t seemed one inch the cold-eyed conqueror that had brought the Chitauri to earth and destroyed half of Manhattan. He had more layers than that.

Layers are exactly what I need right now thought Tony, pulling the flapping corners of his charcoal suit jacket closer around his torso. Pellets of water battered him unforgivingly. A small voice in his head told him that he was behaving like a child. The voice sounded remarkably like Pepper.

“These are real feelings.” He felt like yelling into the gathering storm, though he only mustered a mutter.

Footsteps crept up swiftly behind the drenched genius. A dark coat pushed rudely past, despite ample room on the sidewalk. Tony felt like cursing, he wanted to call after the person with a diamond-edged, cutting response, to make them sorry for the blatantly deliberate shove. No words came. He continued walking.

\---

Shoes pattering squelch-ily, Tony finally admitted to himself that he was utterly and hopelessly lost. Not in the city, per say, but in the labyrinthine passageways of his mind. He had been wandering for three-quarters of an hour, not willing to go home until he could unravel the meaning of Loki’s reaction. His hair was sopping and droplets of water were tracking over his cheeks like tears, his white shirt was plastered against his chest, translucent with the icy glow of the arc reactor.

Well there’s my light, Pepper. Are you happy?

Tony suddenly felt awful, this wasn’t Pepper’s fault. Strength left him and he wilted, his head resting on the frigid steel of a lamp-post. He did need something. He had found the something. The problem now was getting it.

\---

Lost in silent contemplation, Tony didn’t see the hooded figure emerging from a side street. He looked up at the voice, though.

“You alright?” The accent was rough, a subtle blend of downtown New York and cold fury.

“Just tickety-boo, if it’s all the same to you.” Tony replied in the jovial/sarcastic manner that he often used with the public because he had not seen the silhouette of the gun protruding from the figure’s arm.

The mugger didn’t show any appreciation for his humour.

“Wallet, phone, or whatever.” Insistent: this person was desperate, Tony could tell. Violent hands found his pockets. They were empty. Why would the world’s richest man need to carry spare change? He had Pepper for that. Tony’s cell had been left haphazardly at home in his rush to get to the concert on time. Panic flooded his chest.

“I...I’m sorry, I haven’t got anything.” He pleaded, although he could already tell that it would be useless. The cold steel of the gun pressed to his abdomen told him that much. The attacker grunted something indistinct, probably an insult, and twisted the hank of hair that was holding Tony against the lamp post. Tony could smell alcohol, strong alcohol, on the breath that seared his clammy cheek. A gasp escaped his lips as the gun was shoved into his ribs, hard.

That will definitely bruise later.  
If there was a ‘later’.

A kind of melancholy peace enveloped Tony and he closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion. He could have struggled, but his assailant was clearly stronger than him, the suit was the only thing that gave the inventor an advantage over an everyday person and he didn’t want to cause himself any more pain than necessary.

Goodbye, world. He thought ruefully.

What a boring way to go. Tony had always imagined he would go out with a bang, not a pathetic fizzle. (Eg. flying into a multi-dimensional portal, towing a nuke away from New York.) He couldn’t believe that it was mere months since he had saved the city and, no doubt, the person that was about to take his life. This thought process had taken around 30 seconds and Tony felt like asking the robber to get on with it.

Why should I wait for death?

The holder of the gun had caught on. A sharp click reverberated in the empty street. A few more moments passed. Then...footsteps? Tony opened his eyes in hope, but it was much too late.

Pain came before the sound of the bullet. Burning and demanding. The hand in his hair was wrenched away; it had been the only thing supporting his fear-drained body, so he slumped to the floor. His hands scrabbled in a liquid that was curiously warm for rainwater: blood.

A millisecond before he abandoned his consciousness to the pain, Tony’s eyes managed to focus. Not on an object, on a colour.

Green.


	6. Disagreements

“Father, for you, things are different, I know. Nevertheless, I cannot change the laws of nature.”

A voice that sounded like obsidian woke Tony from the darkness. He wrenched his eyelids apart to see a chamber.

A granite throne woven with what looked like the roots of an ancient tree, and on it the speaker. She was dainty, yet power radiated from her as an eerie mist. Her pale flesh was carved with thousands of leathery black lines. The encircled her thin arms and spiralled to the corners of her eyes, which were spheres of onyx, impenetrable and frozen. It was impossible to tell where her pupils ended and her irises began. She waited for a reply from someone that Tony couldn’t see. Silence. So she spoke once more.

“I apologize for your loss.”

It sounded like he was at a funeral. His own funeral, he realised, remembering the bullet. A glance at his chest confirmed that he hadn’t been magically healed, congealed blood oozed lazily from a small hole in his shirt.

Why can’t I feel it?

“Hel, please...” Another voice, weaker than that of the woman, came from the shadows behind Tony. It sounded all too familiar:

Loki.

“Just because you are a god, it doesn’t give you the right to interfere with the cycle of life and death, father.”

The woman, Hel, sounded irritated, like she was dealing with a toddler, not the god of Chaos. Loki’s, daughter, Tony finally pieced together, seemed competent in arguing with her father. A gnarled staff lay in her lap, one end carved in the shape of a serpent’s head, the other a leaf-shaped blade. Her hands danced at the handle, as if she was unsure about wielding the weapon.

“He isn’t dead, not quite. I just require more time.”

It dawned on Tony that they were discussing his mortality. Whoever Hel was, she could decide whether he was going to live or die. He opened his mouth to say something ingratiating, it was probably a good idea to get her on his side. If she could do anything to help him, that was.

“...”

No sound came. Tony could feel his vocal chords moving, they just were prevented from creating words. Hel shot him a lifeless stare; he obviously wasn’t allowed to talk.

Slightly unfair, it is my life that they’re talking about.

Loki stepped forward, into the crescent of grey light. He looked terrible, really, his hair was bedraggled and his shoulders were slack. A torn green jacket was hanging on his wiry frame. The Aesir could had never looked less god-like. He knelt at the foot of Hel’s mossy throne.

“If you can give him but a moment longer, my magic will be sufficient to keep him alive.”

“You ask a lot of me, father.”

“I would not ask this if I knew that you would not grant it.”

Loki’s fingers toyed maliciously with one of the smaller roots that entwined the leg of the chair. The air boomed with lack of words.

“You have never shown so much interest in the passage of a mortal through these halls. Why, in Odin’s name, is this Midgardian suddenly so worthy of your affection?”

Affection?

Tony avoided sharply inhaling at this, he didn’t know if the force that was stopping his pain would prevent his wound from worsening or not. He needed this answer though. For what felt an age he gazed at the back of Loki’s bowed head. In this time, he decided that he would rather die now, but know Loki’s reason, than be released back into life to wander alone once more.

“...my reason, it is irrelevant. What you need to know is that I should have been able to save the Man of Iron’s life, if it were not for a minute’s delay. I owe him his life and you owe me this, Hel.” 

The god of Lies could, ironically, be very earnest when he wanted to be, Tony noted. The enthroned woman considered Loki’s words.

“A small favour, that I would grant you in return for-”

“For what?,” Loki cut her off bluntly, “What do you want?”

“...another favour.”

Mystery shrouded Hel’s words. Loki leaned closer to her, maintaining searing eye-contact. Despite the emptiness of the cavern, Tony could not catch the whisper that flowed from daughter to father. Enchantment, he suspected. He didn’t particularly care; the genius knew family issues when he saw them. Enjoying the revelation that even immortals had the odd parental disagreement, Tony watched the soundless exchange.

The god of Mischief straightened his legs and stepped back from Hel.

“I suppose we have an agreement. I hope you are satisfied with our agreement, Hel, as I cannot go back on the promise I just made.”

“I have been guarding this realm for nearly a millenium, father. Do you not think that I know the value of a human soul.” The Trickster’s daughter cast her eyes downwards.”Not to be cliché, but you should leave now, before I change my mind.”

Of course, Loki’s daughter would have loved to cause havoc and she would have an equally temperamental persona to her father.

I’m free.

Tony was relieved to hear that his life was to continue. Maybe relief wasn’t the right word. From what it sounded like, his life would now be in the hands of Loki. It was too much to comprehend. A dull throbbing ebbed into the wound where the bullet had entered him. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on something other than the pain.

The ebony-haired Aesir turned to face Tony for the first time since the beginning of this ‘meeting’.

“Get ready for the pain, Stark. This will definitely make you ‘feel more alive’.”

The god breathed the words. They were meant as comfort, Tony could tell, but he wasn’t sure that he was meant to hear them or not.

Some more words reached Tony’s ears. Old Norse, probably a spell, the effects of which he couldn't even begin to guess. He felt cold hands on his. A wintery wind ruffled his damp hair.

The pain was back.


	7. Memories

Feather pillows cushioned Tony’s head as he awoke to the sound of rolling waves. The familiar smell of sea salt filled his nostrils, yet it wasn’t pungent: less polluted than the Florida coastline to which he was used.

So I’m not at home.

He was obviously no longer in the tree-root cave, but that didn’t mean he knew where he was. Loki must have brought him somewhere. Whether this place was safe, he didn’t care. Pain had crescendoed during these few thoughts and it was all Tony could do to keep himself from blacking out. An invisible knife was working it’s way up through his abdomen, twisting and grinding.

Then cool hands touched his chest. Tony felt an unnerving tingle.The pain lessened to a dull ache, throbbing gently and sending the billionaire back into the comforting fog of unconsciousness.

\---

Loki hadn’t slept for days. He had sat in a weathered wicker chair at Stark’s bedside for the best part of a week.

Why do I feel so...responsible?

The god of Lies had refrained from healing away his fatigue, choosing to reserve his magic, in case the human took a turn for the worse. Tony Stark had left Hel’s halls alive, but barely so. The fragile mortal’s life had been hanging by a cobweb and all Loki could do was heal him and hope. The god had little experience at healing Midgardians; he had never troubled himself with with their injuries before, so he was unsure where to begin when the pair had landed, in a pool of darkening blood, back in Stark’s realm.

Even with his patient sleeping, Loki couldn’t bring himself to leave the damaged human. Part of his mind told him that he should not have helped the genius at all, he should have left him to the fate of the rainy night. That part was overwhelmed by another, new-feeling corner of Loki’s brain, a small voice that told him that things could be different. This time.

It had been a while since the god had felt the urge to help, rather than destroy. It pained him to work with constructive aims instead of destructive ones. The pain was a good pain, though. A pain that made the rewards of his labours all the sweeter. Loki attempted to push the memories of Álfheimr into the murky recesses of his thought, but they swelled and burst like a melancholy bubble in his mind’s eye...

I cannot let these experiences stop me now. Stark is not a Ljósálfar, I will not let him die just because of my history.

Needing something to distract him from the unpleasant reminiscing, Loki finally stood up.

He crossed the open, whitewashed room, feet sliding slightly over smooth beech planks. His cello lay on it’s side in the corner, next to a pile of haphazardly stacked manuscripts. Selecting a sheet at random, he tore it from the heap, using a small amount of magic to keep the yellowed papers out of gravity’s clutches. He slid his fingers around the instruments graceful neck and carried it lovingly back to chair’s corner.

Music was like a drug, even to his Aesir strength. It ensnared his senses and captured his ambitious persuasion. Loki had always found himself bored when on Midgard. It wasn’t like the god of Mischief could have ‘normal’ hobbies, other that is, than spreading havoc and madness. In music, he found a challenge. With his unnatural magical capabilities, Loki had never had to practise something before. Having something to work at that actually showed improvement gave him immense satisfaction. Even having the foolish mortals commend his talents gave Loki an unfamiliar sense of pride. This was only enhanced by the fact that he had always lived in Thor’s shadow.

A honey-coloured note hummed from the cello as he drew the bow experimentally across the strings. It had been too long since he had played, since the night of his last concert, the night of raindrops and blood.

Loki bowed his head, cradling the instrument. He allowed himself to be lost in the music for a while. It had been uncomfortable at first: releasing his normally frozen-solid self-control. He had come to love the way that he could let himself go.

\---

A lamenting tune anchored Tony to reality. It also brought back the sickening sensation of a small, spiny creature burrowing beneath his ribs. The vibrations worsened the hurt, yet made it better at the same time. With unopened eyes, he exhaled slightly, lessening some of the tension that had built up in his chest. A shift of his weight slightly onto his left shoulder only made the soreness blossom further. He winced.

\---

Hours slipped by before the god could bring himself to stop playing. He needed the music. The melody continued within him as he reluctantly lay the cello on the floor. Stark was stirring. Crows feet dented the tanned skin around the inventor’s eyes. Without cognitive decision, Loki extended a slender finger to smooth out the wrinkles.

Stark’s eyes opened abruptly at the light touch. The brown irises were instantly accusing.

What am I doing?

Loki sharply withdrew his fingertip, abashed and embarrassed. Hopefully before the mortal cottoned on to his action, he shifted to a more distant position, leaning on twisted metalwork the foot of the bed.

“Hey, Edward Cullen, I saw that.” Stark attempted a chuckle but looked like he regretted it. Of course, his laughter would be limited by the train-wreck state of his diaphragm.

A reference to Midgardian culture? Loki questioned inwardly.

The god tried to assume a friendly, hospitable expression. One that said ‘everything will be fine’ in lieu of ‘I have kidnapped you from your city, taken you to Hell and back and I am trying to heal your probably fatal wounds.’

Probably.


	8. Awkwardness

Emerald pools pulled Tony’s sense of awareness out of his body, away from the kniving pain. For a few seconds he felt as if he was gravitating towards the figure at the end of the bed. Then the figure began an interested investigation of the patterns in the floorboards. The pain was still gone. A tingling sensation just below his left temple remained.

Wait, why in Fury’s name was Loki stroking my face? Is what he should have thought, instead of: Why did he stop?

Ignoring his brain’s woozy - just woken up - foolings, the inventor admired the adorable blotches of crimson forming on Loki’s cheekbones. The god was in limbo between confusion and a terrifying expression of hospitality.

What does he have to be embarrassed about? I’m the one who is waking in the bed of my official nemesis practically swaddled and unable to explain the situation. The billionaire knew he was a playboy, but surely not that much of a playboy.

Tony tried to extract his arms from the strangling sheets, unsuccessfully.

“Um, I know the flooring is exquisite, but I could do with some help here, Reindeer Games”

Without meeting his gaze, the god awkwardly released his patient from the egyptian cotton prison. His hand inadvertently brushed Tony’s side and through his shirt; glacially cold. Once Tony was free, he returned to the foot of the bed, almost like it was a ‘safe distance’.

“Y’know, normally my nurses are a lot friendlier.” Tony quipped, mainly to see if the Trickster would reply.

Loki frowned.

Why won’t he speak, he can’t be intimidated; two months ago he threw me out of a window, for God’s sakes.

Tony let out a low whistle of exasperation. Trying to catch the Prankster’s conversational attention had exhausted him. Now able to move, he shifted onto his side. The pain was gradually building up again. Lying in a different way didn’t exactly help, but it gave him a view other than the dazed, calculating look on Loki’s face.

\---

It amazed Loki how quickly mortals could achieve sleep, a skill that he had never particularly mastered. Stark was facing away from him, but the steady (although uneven - gunshot wound) rise and fall of his ribcage confirmed his unconsciousness. The god found it hard not to notice how fragile the Man of Iron was, surrounded by bedclothes, rather than metal.

He would not make the same mistake again, embarrassing himself into a state of psychosomatic muteness. The fact that this human was not disturbed by his silence, or even his presence, reminded Loki of the flickering hope that he had found understanding. A hope that had been pushed aside by raindrops and gunshots in the dark.

The Aesir sighed heavily. Cool air rushed from his mouth to disturb the dust motes suspended before him. It would be a long night waiting for Tony Stark to awaken. Even longer for him to heal so that Loki could be in peace once more.

\---

The next time Tony woke, he imagined that he felt well enough to leave the wicker and cast-iron bed.

When he tested this expectation, he found that he could not make it more than a few steps before collapsing. The crash of gravity’s victory triggered a splashing sound from some distance away.

Just as the movement-impaired billionaire was about to give up and blackout, Loki emerged through the french windows set into the wall opposite the bed.

“Stark.” It sounded like an accusation.

Tony was manhandled (that seemed the word for it, although Loki touched him as little as possible) back into the bed. It had become softer since his brief acquaintance with the unvarnished beechwood floor. Settled, he looked up at his ‘saviour’.

There were drops of water beading at the ends of Loki’s tousled hair. The green-grey buttondown he had obviously hurriedly pulled on was damp also. Swimming? Not in the sea. The genius had seen the steam on the room’s windows. It was not especially cold inside, outside must be freezing, the sea would be colder. Yet he could smell the salt of the waves on the Aesir.

Now was not the time for questions. It felt for all the world like a spiked mace was making it’s way through his abdomen. But Tony needed the answers.

“Loki,” the jade eyes focussed noncommittally on a spot just past his head,” where exactly am I?”

No response.

“...and don’t play the silent game with me, I may have been an only child, but I am one heck of a stubborn adult.”

Mirth sparkled in the cold jewels.

Loki had had siblings.

“Stark, I would rather leave the, frankly, in your state, unimportant matter of our location to later discussion.” The words were confident, the tone weak, uncertain. Avoiding the question.

The inventor scowled, pouting like the spoilt child he was. This could take some time but, hey, when you’re mortally injured who doesn’t want to play word games with the Norse god of Mischief? Maybe they could save Scrabble for tomorrow.

“Look, Matron, if you don’t want me to ask the same question over and over again until you finally relent, I would just surrender now.” Tony was partly tired, partly bored and partly in growing agony. His face plainly displayed the latter.

Loki reached an ivory hand to Tony’s temple and the stabbing feeling retreated to a slow throb. Needless to say, the hand was gone before he became too attached. Snatched back to the Trickster’s lap, tying thin air in knots.

“Your...mobility was compromised, so I teleported us both here.”

Questioning eyebrows from the bedridden billionaire.

“This place is safe, though far from your tower and your friends. I thought it easier to heal you without them...interfering.”

Subduing and arresting you, more like. Tony kept this to himself; the god was finally talking.

“When you are fully healed, I promise to return you to the city of New York, as long as you can assure me that you won’t try to find this place again.”

This was sounding less like an explanation and more like a contract.

“Yep, sure,” Tony mumbled into the suddenly inviting pillowcase, “I was just checking you weren’t going to skin me while I slept.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some beautiful art by teejaystumbles.tumblr.com/:  
> hakkyouhime.deviantart.com/art/Loki-playing-cello-342820625


End file.
